


Happy Creation Orn

by ChrysCare



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Happy B-days, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrysCare/pseuds/ChrysCare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy b-day to me :D</p><p>and to everyone on their birthday</p>
    </blockquote>





	Happy Creation Orn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChrysCare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrysCare/gifts).



> Happy b-day to me :D
> 
> and to everyone on their birthday

Prowl frowns as he checks on the posts that normally have mechs stationed there, like, for instance, Red Alert’s security room. The small red and white mech never left his command center vacant without Inferno taking over. Was there an attack and he missed the alarms blaring throughout the base? He tries calling Jazz, the comm line is disconnected. He tries to call the Prime and that line is also disconnected. He even tries calling Ultra Magnus and it comes up with the same dead connection line. How is it possible that all the commanding officers' comm lines are dead? 

:Prowl to Ratchet?: Prowl asks, one last ditch effort before trying something completely different to see where all the Autobots are through the security feeds. The medic’s comm line is dead as well. He types in his codes to the security console and starts rewinding the main hallway security field. He passes joors of past feed and not a single mech walks down the hallway. “What in Primus’ name is going on?” 

A small voice in his processor chills his spark and Energon lines. ‘Perhaps it was all a simulation and I am just figuring it out.’

His spark pulses painfully at that thought. What if it all were just a simulation? A really well built one, one where mechs can spark merge and bond—his bond with Jazz. If it truly was a simulation it will not lead him to Jazz, it would only lead him to where Jazz would be, where he thought Jazz would be. He sends a pulse along what he believes to be the bond he shares with Jazz, a flicker of surprise before a hope that something won’t be ruined. He smirks and heads toward where he last felt Jazz through the bond. One thing he knows is that the feeling of hoping something doesn’t turn out ruined is not in his dictionary of emotions. 

He steps into the main hallway and heads down it, past the med-bay, past the Prime’s office. Not one much for noise, but the silence around him makes his plating tingle with slight fear. Not that he would eve admit being scared of the silence and hauntingly dead halls of the Ark around him. Something ghost-like crawls up his back-strut and he glances over his shoulders, servo ready to pull his acid pellet rifle. Only the empty hall behind him greets his optics. “Mirage, do not play games with a superior officer.”

Silence, no laugh, no sound of the light refractor powering down comes to chase away the silence. He frowns at where he thought Mirage should be behind him, doorwings drooping down on his back. He glances down the way he was heading, the long orange hall seems like it stretches on for forever. 

“Get a grip,” Prowl pulls his rifle out as he huffs. “I’m lead Tactician of the Autobots. I can’t be afraid of . . . of the quiet . . . empty . . . comm line dead . . . no back up if there are Decepticons aboard . . . Ark. What’s the worst that can happen?”

He frowns when his battle computer replies to him that everyone on the Ark could be deactivated and the Decepticons are just watching him for their entertainment when one decides to jump out and torture him to deactivation. He feels his doorwings tremble before tucking them closer to his frame. What if the Decepticons took over the Ark? 

Wait.

Since when did Decepticons do anything quietly? He relaxes a small bit at that thought, though not completely letting his guard down. The acid rifle staying in servo at his side, he starts his way back down the hallway to his destination. His pede steps echo in the empty halls and he never realizes how loud a Cybertronian’s frame can be with their engine idling, their vent fans whirling and their pede’s against the metal of the ship. He slows, quieting his frame and continues down the hallway before coming to stop in front of the large double doors of the Rec Room. Silence comes from the other side and he types in his code, the keypad denies his code. He frowns and types in Jazz’s code. It too is denied. Doorwings twitching in anger and irritation, he types in the Prime’s code and the key-pad stays yellow for a pulse before turning green and accepting it. 

Double doors slide apart to reveal the dark room. He pulls his rifle up and steps through the threshold. Bright lights flicker on the moment his pede hits the floor. Processor labeling and categorizing the mechs in the room, he doesn’t miss the smile on Jazz’s face and the yell of “Surprise!” from the mechs and he pulls the trigger on his rifle. Jazz screams as his black servos fall to his lower abdomen. 

“That was for not picking up your comm,” Prowl glares at his bonded. He walks up to the red and blue Prime before smacking the mech’s arm. “That was for not picking up yours and Ratchet-“ Prowl throws his rifle at the red and white medic which hits the surprised mech in the chest “—is for not picking up yours, it could have been a medical emergency.”

“Prowler,” Jazz whines as he holds the not so life threating wound, the pellet didn’t even shatter upon impact and lodged itself in the gaps of the special ops agent’s armor. 

“You do not cut off your comms to a superior officer,” Prowl glares at the Autobots before glancing around the room to see balloons and banners and streamers and glowing crystals sitting in the middle of the booths. Two of the tables are pulled together and a platter of Energon cookies and goodies sit on it. A large cake in the form of him spans over one and a half of the tables. “What is this?”

“This was supposed to be your surprise Creation Orn party,” Jazz pouts as he pulls the pellet out of his armor and subspaces it. 

“Is it not still?” Prowl smiles and looks around at the Autobots gathered. Every Autobot stationed on the Ark is in the room with some form of party decoration on their frame, even the minibots have balloons tied to their shoulder plate of back plate. “You did this all for my creation orn?”

“Yup,” Jazz grabs Prowl’s arm with both of his and leads the tactician to the table. “Made this mahself.”

“You did?” Prowl looks at the perfect replica of his own frame in cake form. 

“Jazz, I believe Prowl gets to make a wish,” Optimus Prime smiles lightly as Prowl glances up at him. 

“A wish?” Prowl frowns. What do mech’s wish for? An end to the war? A long and happy life? He glances around the Autobots, every blue and yellow optic focused on him as Jazz lights the burning crystal in the cake Prowl’s chest, the crystal glows blue like a spark. A smile comes to his normally stoic face, a smile everyone can see. “I know what I will wish for.”

Prowl blows out the burning crystal, the white glittering smoke swirls in the air above the cake before disappearing. 

“What’d ya wish for?” Jazz asks, not so quietly and Prowl notices all the Autobots waiting for him to answer. 

“I cannot say because then . . . it will not come true,” Prowl says, the groans from the Autobots fill the rec room. 

“I bet he wished for more work,” one of the Autobots says, Prowl laughs at that and shakes his helm. 

“Wished for the twins to stop pranking?” Ratchet asks, looking hopeful at the tactician. Prowl again smiles and shakes his helm.

“Primus knows my wish, that is all that matters and it’s completion,” Prowl turns to Jazz. “Will you do the honors to cut the cake?”

“I call doorwings!” Jazz’s blue visor darkens to a deep purple, cutter in servo like a weapon. Every mech shrinks away slightly, optics bright and Prowl just smiles at his bonded. All will be well, if not he could always ask Jazz to make a cake of him and tell him who is claiming Cake Prowl’s doorwings.


End file.
